show me that it's worth it
by Tiredandlazy
Summary: Lance, Hunk and Pidge are stranded in the desert after a road trip gone foul. Keith is lonely and severely sick. And also wildly annoyed when three boisterous people take residence in his shack.
1. Chapter 1

**Large sudden O's are line breaks because I can't figure out how to do them on mobile. Im also v tired and sad so bear with me pls.**

Keith wonders if it's worth it.

He stands in the sand, the soles of his feet burn with the heat but he remains unblinking, staring up and the sky and breathing in the dry air.

His brain feels too big for his skull, he feels like he can't think or move without crashing. Every breath feels a little more worthless than the next. A part of him recognizes the growing rise in temperature, recognizes the danger of standing out in the sun for so long. The rest of him ignores it, stuffs his hands into his shirt to rub away the itchy sweat that gathers on his chest.

Keith wonders how long he's been here. How many days spent with the sand as his only company. It feels so long yet so short, feels like everything is playing on loop _and_ slow motion.

He fancies the idea of walking to nowhere and seeing where that is. Anything is better than the aching fog in his brain. He finds he can't think right, reality is warped and nothing makes sense. His hair feels like it's made of plastic and his skin is warping into the the spikes of a cactus and everything feels so useless.

There's nothing here for him but still, he stays.

It hurts some, but the thought of leaving makes him ill. It would be betrayal to leave the sand and coyotes alone, to let the spiders have no company and the mice have no one to steal from. He pretends he likes it here and smiles at the sand until he feels as psychotic as he looks.

When he hears a distant chatter behind him he doesn't turn. Knows it's all in his head. Knows it will pass. Everything does, here.

Finally, he ducks back into the blessed shade of the dusty shack, nausea is bubbling in his gut and all he can think about is loss.

He doesn't leave for days.

 **OoooooooooooO**

Keith wakes up and can't breathe.

His head feels like cotton, everything is hot but his skin feels icy. The faux leather couch sticks to his legs and arms with a vengeance, sticky and unpleasant.

From where his head is buried in his arms he can't tell if it's day or night, but he can make our stars behind his lids. Everything feels is spinning. It reminds him of the time his father had taken him to a carnival, reminds him of sitting at the top of the Ferris wheel; high with joy and nausea. ( _He'd thrown up on the way down and his father hadn't been able to stop laughing_ )

Now, he's alone and on stable ground. His father isn't in sight, Keith isn't sure he'd want him to be.

The teen can feel ice on his skin where his shirt rides up his back, everything feels slick with sweat but he's shaking, shivering so hard it feels like the time there's been the first thunders of an earthquake, back when he'd been in L.A with Rolo, tired of temporary homes and high without the nausea or joy. He remembers the clatter of cheap pottery dishes and torn blinds so vividly he almost thinks he hears the ceiling caving.

He remembers wishing it had.

Slowly, when he pulls his head up to take steady breathes through his mouth, he can pull the room into focus. It's dark, likely freezing but Keith can't feel any chill over the fire in his veins. Nothing is out of place but his jacket, thrown haphazardly across the room to crumple at the foot of the wooden kitchen stool that stabs him with splinters whenever he dares to touch it.

Keith can't tell if he's relieved or unhappy with its loss. The temperature is quickly fluctuating between fire and ice water, it's like he's being thrown through snow then tossed on a grill and definitely doesn't help with the pounding in his head or the building nausea. Still, slowly uncurls himself to make the attempt of stumbling across the darkened shack for the article of clothing after the heat subsides to give in to the classic chill of a desert night. It's only when he's on his feet that he remembers the nausea but then it's too late.

The vomit goes everywhere and it would have been almost comical if it weren't for the fact that his throat feels torn to shreds and nothing about this situation feels good. He's alone in the middle of nowhere, singlehandedly taking up the role of an icebox and a furnace while standing in his own bile.

Oh, Monday's.

 **OooooooooooooooO**

The prospect of traveling across country had always been an exciting one. It was a promise that he'd carried since middle school with zeal and now here they were; sweaty and exhausted with zero gas in the middle of nowhere.

"Is this how I die?" Lance kicks up the sand and gazes up at the sky through narrowed eyes. Hunk sighs from his place by the camper. "I thought it'd be cooler than this."

"Sorry to disappoint," Pidge's voice carries from inside the vehicle, squeaky and distracted. "But there's no way in hell you would ever die epically. I always thought you'd choke on your own spit and fall down some stairs, but this will do in a pinch."

The brunette spins on his heel to glare at the spot the youth would be it she wasn't hidden by a neon yellow car door. She's probably on the floor because he can't spot her through the windows. "I'm serious! We're gonna die young and it won't even be with any grace."

"We're just out of gas, Lance." Hunk reminds him carefully. "We still have water, food _and_ a map. We can probably walk to the nearest civilization and get some help before you know it."

" _We_ can." Pidge calls. "I vote we leave loverboy behind."

" _Excuse_ -?"

"You stepped on rover, Lance. You deserve what's coming."

Hunk sighs again. "No ones leaving anyone behind. Even if they did step on rover."

"That was two years ago!" Lance protests. "Why am I still getting shit for that? I'm a changed man."

"Rover isn't. He didn't get the chance."

The lanky teen throws an unseen middle finger Pidges way. It's a weak deflection and he feels stupid as he catches his own reflection in the darkened window. He looks horrible; shiny with sweat that makes his hair stick in spikes to his forehead, the sunlight wasn't as complimentary as he'd hoped, so he wasn't even getting a good Instagram picture out of this disaster.

With an ill humored grunt, he stalks over to where Hunk is hunched over his phone and peers to take a look. It's hard to see the screen with all the light, but he can make out the screen captures of what roads to take after his eyes adjust.

"How long will this soul sucking journey take?"

"Like, three hours?" The broad man stuffs his phone back into his shorts pocket and tosses his head back to gaze into the camper. "Better slather yourself in sun cream, Pidge."

"Or turn into a walking hotdog, I don't care." Lance sniffs.

They take off not long after, stocked with water bottles and the wrapped up sandwiches Hunk had made the day prior. Lances socks feel sticky with sweat, and the back of his heel chafes against the sneaker with a vengeance. That discomfort is very mild in the wake of the boiling heat, and they're all panting like dogs well before an hour in.

The only thing Lance can find comfort in is the clear road they trek down, though old and gravely it's sure to lead somewhere that's not death. Unless it leads to cannibals; desert man eaters that hide in the Texan planes, luring innocent prey in with worn roads and that one broken street sign that was too warped by the heat to read. Maybe it was a cannibal crossing warning.

Pidge is lagging far behind by the time they hit an hour of walking. Lance would tease if he could muster up the energy, but now he feels bad for her and the curse she carries of being ridiculously short. Her little legs are no match for the effortless strides him and Hunk take. Still, there's nothing he can do for his fun-sized friend until they reach some sort of goddamn shade for a well deserved pit stop.

The pit stop comes in the form of a beaten shack the moment Lance decides it would be better to roast to death than continue walking. It's just a smudge in the heatwaves, but was still enough for blatant excitement and relief to arise within the three.

"Fiiinallyyyyy." Pidge groans from her place behind them, feet audibly dragging. "There better be someone living there or I swear to god-"

" _Please don't be cannibals, please don't be cannibals,_ "

"Even if there isn't anyone there, it's gonna be some shade and shelter to cool off." Hunk muses. "Maybe even some sort of well nearby..?" His headband has been wrapped around the mans wrist in favor of letting his hair flop up and down with every dramatically heavy step, dark strands falling into his eyes.

The shack looks ridiculously ominous as they near, and largely abandoned save for the shiny red motorcycle that's parked by the front. There's a smashed porch light hanging over the door and tightly curtained windows, still and lifeless in the gentle breeze.

"Definitely cannibals." Lance groans.


	2. Chapter 2

**IM NOT DEAD WOW IM FUCKINH SORRY? its been a hot minute ill try to be faster next time. its been a weird but boring year so i dont really have much of an excuse for my absence.**

 **Moon-is-my-life: thank you! heres your update abeit late ':))**

 **Guest: thanks! i actually havent seen thAt much of the show so i'm glad im not making them too out of character, hopefully this chapter potrays them as well as you think the last one did**

Keith ignores the loud, rattling knocks that sound at the door. Half buried into the couch cushions and hands tightly gripping his hair he can barely manage a gutless growl, much less the strength to stand and answer a door that likely wasn't even knocked at in the first place. _Damn his own mind._

From his spot by the window he attempts to peer blearily outside, but it's curtained by an ex's old throw-over and the heavy cloths spiraling pattern makes him dizzy. Or was he dizzy before? He can't remember. There's more knocks at the door, or maybe it's just the pounding in his head. It's really hard to tell over the roaring in his ears. But the likelihood of them being real is low enough for Keith to sink back into the cushions, grimacing at the dryness in his throat and mouth, taste bitter with dehydration.

There's voices now, again. Just like yesterday, or maybe not yesterday. Everything has been a blur of misery for a while. The voices sound like they're underwater, warbling and reaching high and low in pitches. It's irritating, Keith just wanted to melt in silence.

The light from the window is abruptly blocked, a blurry shadow rescuing Keith's already pounding head from the agonizingly bright sun for the first time since morning. Something is tapping on the glass now, and the pinging noise opens up something yawning in Keith's chest, something akin to fear and maybe even a little yearning. But the man can't bring himself to care anymore. The doors are locked and he's not particularly feeling life enough to care whether they're real and here to harm him. Maybe they'll be kind enough to put him out of his misery?

 _All they seem to be doing now is adding to it,_ he grouses, _why can't everything shut up?_

The tapping at the window _does_ stop. When he gathers the strength through all his annoyance to chuck one of his dusty boots at the glass.

It hits with a satisfying _crack_ , but the sharp scream follows directly after isn't nearly as nice to hear. It makes the pain _pulse_ behind his eyes, fiery with vengeance that makes him audibly whine.

" _Oh fuck you too._ " He groans, but it's barely more than a whisper.

The shadow moves away from the pane, and the blinding desert sun is suddenly all he can see. Keith buries his head back in the cushions and tries not to throw up. It still certainly does come up, despite Keith's best efforts, and the acidic liquid _burns_ as he swallows it back down.

 _Nasty_. A part of his brain complains, but it's easy to ignore over the heat. What's less easy to ignore is the gross faux leather that sticks to the tops of his thighs and arms, slick with sweat making ugly shrieking noises when he attempts to slide a leg off the couch. Keith can't hear anything anymore, everything is going fuzzy, like he'd stuffed cotton balls so far up his ears that it sticks to his brain. It's sudden, but not unwelcome, and maybe he shouldn't have exerted so much energy into throwing that shoe because theres black spots dancing the corners of his vision, slowly gathering together not unlike a pool of tar until there's nothing left to see at all.

OoooooooooooooolinebreakoooooooooooooooooO

It was hard to tell if the foreboding shack got less or more terrifying by the time they stood at the doorstep. Distance highlighted the blackened roof tiles and the glint of a shattered solar panel, but it was only when they'd closed the space between they caught onto the spidery cracks webbing across one of the window panes and the multiple mismatched locks lined down by the handle. The door is solid wood and knotted, and Hunk gains a splinter when he swipes a finger across it in search of an address number.

" _Rice balls_ -" the large man hisses and draws his hand back, nursing the injury against his tongue.

There is no noise from inside the weathered shack when he knocks, just the faint groaning from where wind makes the old planks grind. Pidge heaves a sigh that's forceful enough to make a joint audibly pop in her shoulder, her glasses shining viciously. "This door isn't defeating me."

With no other warning, she slams both her fists against the wood. It makes a painful hollow sound, and her entire posture curls inward as she brings her hands to her chest with a pained grumble.

"Wow," Lance breathes, "my hero."

Hunk lumbers off to the side of the shack after no signs of life erupt from inside the shack after Pidge's racket. His eyes tired, but amused. The Cuban man follows with little hesitation; partially from boredom and partially out of the fear that Pidge would turn her fists to him lest she see his smirk.

The windows are sun damaged and blurry, covered by something bright and ugly, gross yellow swirls melting into red and purple as the battered curtain disappears beneath the sill. It was akin to a bloodstained psychedelic tapestry splashed with a charitable amount vomit. Pidge may have called him dramatic for the description, but Lance felt like it was as accurate as any.

"This sucks." The Cuban acknowledges, bouncing on his heels to watch dust fly up around his sneakers. Hunk ignores him in favor of tapping on the glass with a gentle hand and a squint, as if he could stare straight through the curtain lest he try hard enough. Maybe he could, the man remembers his brother telling him it was always the quiet ones. Lance hopes he'd be more than a damsel if Hunk starred in a marvel film. He'd be down to being the sex appeal, or at _least_ the sidekick. Though that line could always be blurred.

Sexy sidekick, he could work with that.

That thought process is scattered with a muffled bang and a _crack_ , the curtain slamming into the window as the pane splinters outwards like a spiderweb. Hunk just about jumps a mile into the air and both men _shriek_.

Pidge is there in an instant, all wild eyes and frizzy hair. "What the fuck did you _do_?"

"Nothing!" Lance hisses, seemingly incapable of whispering quietly. "Fucking cannibal _ghosts broke the window._ "

"Hello?" Hunk calls out, tentative. "Sorry for bothering you? Our car broke down and now we're stu-"

"Don't communicate with... whatever that was!"

The ginger leans forward "well the window didn't _really_ break, it's sorta salvageable."

Shards of glass crackle under her sneaker. They ignore it.

"Well _now_ what?"

The air is still hot, there's a layer of sweat painting Lance's back, he's itchy and tired and there's some sort of vengeful presence holed up in their only chance of reprieve from a 3 hour walk through a desert likely filled with cannibals or aliens. Oh how he doesn't want to end up as a Buzzfeed Unsolved story, he can see the title now; The Mysterious Disappearances in the Chihuahuan Desert. He hopes they use flattering photos, at least. Respect for the dead and all that.

Pidge, uncharacteristically quiet, wordlessly curls her hand and taps a single finger against the pane, her chipped nail makes an airy _tink tink._

"Uhhhhh," Hunk bunches his shoulders from where he stands behind Pidge, peering over her head. His voice is taught and pitched high with fear _. "Is that a body?"_

The words are more than enough to make the Cuban man startle and scramble closer to the window, where the curtain is caught and bunched against the sill from the violent blow. It's no more than an inch to peek through, but it's enough to see pink watery flecks across wood flooring and an icy, pale hand slumped to touch the floor from a beaten leather sofa. The veins are eerily prominent against the inside of the wrist, blue and fragile, and suddenly his heart is in his throat and everything goes to static for a moment.

" _Ohmygodsomeonesdead_."

Pidge is white in the face but still protests. "We don't know that-"

"Since when are you the optimist?" Lance hissed "its a fucking zombie hand! Blue. White. Dead."

"It's probably their ghost that hit the window." Hunk's large hands cup his face and drag the lids of his watering eyes down. "Oh my _god_."

"Ghosts don't even exist-!"

"We're as good as dead! I've seen enough horror movies to know how this plays out." The Cuban slumps to grab and shake her shoulders, ignoring the genius' cry of indignation entirely. "We're so dead, guys."

"Congrats, you'll die a virgin then." She snaps. It's almost enough to hide the shake in her voice.

"I'm not a-"

Hunk _screams_.

It's an unpleasant sound, like someone had punched a goat. It makes both Lance and Pidge alike freeze, Lance on the edge of his heels with bent knees; prepared to bolt. Everything is suddenly too quiet, save for the weepy hitches of distressed pants coming from the large man. It feels like the sky has even dimmed, robins egg blue smudging into a sadder, grey color in the span of a few breathes.

"It moved." Hunk's eyes are wide. "The hand moved."

"Wait really?" Pidge is shoving her face uncomfortably close the window within seconds, ignoring the glittering shards splintering towards her sunburnt cheeks as they place a palm against the glass. If it cuts her; she shows no sign of pain. Had this been any other scenario one of the two men would probably be keen enough to check, but now there's not even a reaction.

Sure enough, the hand is gone, but beneath the glare of the sun reflection Lance can catch the familiar jut and curve of an elbow just before the curtain swoops enough to block his vision. It's not as ghoulish as the hand had been; there's no raised veins or gross dampness, just smooth white skin and smudges of pink irritation where the joint bends.

"Looks..." Lance raises his brows, " _alive?_ "

" _Alive?_ " Hunk echoes

"Alive." Pidge removes her palm from the glass long enough to tug out where her sleeves had been cuffed, balling her hands up inside of the green cotton and violently _punching_ her tiny fist through the center of the spidery cracks.

0000000000linebreak0000000000000000000000000

Keith remembers hot boxing a car with Rolo and two guys they'd somehow picked up from the local gay bar, the air had been gross with the lingering scent of BO that hadn't been completely concealed beneath the thick scent of weed. He wonders if Rolo had thought the deodorant he'd received for his birthday had been a joke, or if it's the two strangers squeezed with his blonde friend up front. One guy is balanced on the box between the two seats, three blunts in hand as they pretend they're not in pain from the way the seating presses and constricts his hips. Or maybe he really is just too baked to notice.

Rolo is slumped over the steering wheel and puffing out smoke like a dragon, he's got a hand on the second guys thigh, unabashedly reaching across the dude in the middle to get there. Keith recalls wishing he was high enough to not get secondhand embarrassment.

Keith also recalls all the laughter and small talk stuttering off after they'd rolled down the windows and taken the short drive back to their place, recalls getting locked out and Rolo, in a childish tantrum, ( _I can't get laid if I can't get the goddamn bed Keith! Or at least the couch-_ ) hitting at the pane of the front doors window until it spit and shattered. (' _Oh we are never getting our security deposit back'_ )

He remembers it now, as the stuffy air and the familiar shriek of breaking glass is suddenly all he is aware of. It's almost musical, loud and bright and gone as soon as it came. All that's left is the twinkling of shards hitting the floor, tiny tiny bells of ice that he can feel catching on the back of his exposed thigh. His face remains buried in the cushions, even though he thinks he should be concerned he's just tired. The glass and bells and smoke can wait, probably.

There's the familiar wavering pitch from somewhere behind him, like someone had taken a handful of voices and knit them together. It starts out low and builds into a shrill warble, and it sounds like what Keith imagines a jellyfish would talk like had they the capability, alien and peaking with every bounce. Something cracks and crunches and everything goes loud for a moment. He pictures jellyfish slamming into the window like pigeons to distract from the pain gathering behind his eyes. There's pressure on his shoulder now, the warbling is close and hot against his ear and he feels a growl build in his throat. It sorta simulates what the man imagines gargling nails would feel like, but the pressure leaves and satisfaction lies quietly in his stirring gut.

Fuck jellyfish


End file.
